


Desire for a Legacy

by DaFlangstLairde



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander's thoughts, While writing the other 51, legacy, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 15:35:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16267151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaFlangstLairde/pseuds/DaFlangstLairde
Summary: Alexander Hamilton was going to create the story of Alexander Hamilton.





	Desire for a Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic where it's just  
> The thought process of Hamilton as he writes the other 51. His desire for a legacy, being remembered, for not being alone.

"There's not enough time, there's not enough time-" Alex frantically mumbled under his nose without realizing it as his pen practically flew over the paper, leaving behind trails of words and words and words. His breathing was quick, almost as quick as his writing. "I'm running out of time, I'm running out if time" He went on. The deadline was creeping around the corner. Sure, he did pass the eight pages limit by so much more, but the more- the better. His standards- they were way too high to let him rest. He desired to prove himself, to leave behind a legacy. To be remembered.  
  
And this was his way of doing it. Leaving behind pages of writing, his words across them.  
  
Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe his standards really were way too high. But he'd be damned if he didn't at least attempt to fulfill them, writing these essays in the six month time span. He'd be damned if he let himself be beaten by John Jay or James Madison- no, he couldn't allow for that to happen. He must make sure that he writes more than either of them, more than both of them together. He needed this, carved this. Desired to be remembered, to leave behind a trace, to not be another meaningless grain of sand in the grand scheme of things. He didn't want to be forgotten after his relatives, his family, died. He wanted to be remembered, remembered as someone, remembered by many, remembered for long. He couldn't afford for his life, for these less than hundred years that have been gifted to him so generously, to be pointless.  
  
Because a decade is nothing compared to the grandiose expand of time.  
  
No, he was not like that, Alexander Hamilton wasn't that way. Alexander Hamilton was ambitious, stubborn, dedicated, extra, non-stop- and he was going to be remembered that way. He wasn't going to be invisible, he wasn't going to be unimportant- he was going to make sure of that. He was going to make sure people were fascinated by his doings, that people heard his voice, bold and clear. That he was noticed, heard, listened to, remembered. His mother- no one listened to his mother, her words, her cries of pain. No one listened to him back then, when all he was was a whore's son, a boy without parents whose life held no worth in any way, shape, or form.  
  
A boy, whose voice wasn't heard, whose face wasn't remembered.  
  
Back then, he wrote. He wrote his way out and his way in. Out of the hell that was back on Nevis, that island in the Caribbean where he was born and where he suffered; into America- where you can be a new man, where everyone is given a chance; into Eliza's heart. Eliza, his lovely wife- so sweet, so caring, so soft. He knew he didn't deserve her, but she was there, and she loved him, and he loved her. There was nobody like her- she was a gift from the heavens, one and only. He wrote his way out, he wrote his way in. And he was going to write now. And he will keep on writing.  
  
That was his way of leaving a trace.  
  
He knew more was to come, more troubles, more controversy. He knew things had just begun, even if they had finished the war- they had won the war, earning the freedom of this glorious unfinished symphony that is America. His friends had fought along with him. He finally wasn't alone- he had became sick and tired of being alone. Alone, his brother never being present in his life. Alone, his father leaving him and his mother just like that. Alone, his mother dying of the sickness they had both gotten. Alone, his cousin committing suicide, unable to keep going through the struggles. Alone, the hurricane killing everyone, causing so much death and chaos.  
  
No, he finally wasn't alone. He had friends, he had supporters, he had a wife, he had enemies- even enemies are better than being alone and unheard.  
  
His enemies, Alexander's enemies. It was better for your voice to be heard by someone, anyone, even if that someone hated your voice- than not being heard at all. Alexander despised not being heard, being silent- he could never stay silent. He had always hated the quiet. Quiet, when his mind isn't buzzing; after the hurricane, when there was no one around to make noise, all of them dead; laying next to his mother, she was quiet, she was dead; His cousin, not making a single sound because of death's grip around his throat;  
  
Uptown it was quiet. He had never liked it uptown.  
  
And so Alexander wrote. He wrote pages upon pages, filling them with as many words and he possibly could, and even then kept on writing. He wanted to be heard, for people to listen to his words. He wanted to not be alone, never again. He wanted to fill the silence with noise. He wanted to be remembered. To leave behind a legacy. To leave behind these words, these doings, for them to continue on.  
  
A legacy is planting seeds in a garden you never get to see and enjoy, because your legacy begins growing into a beautiful flower only after you're gone from this world.  
  
What Alexander will never understand, is that he already had a legacy. Legacy isn't only in the things you do, the choices you make- it's in the people around you. Paper can disappear with time, words and actions can be forgotten. But as long as there is someone carrying your legacy, it will continue on, passed from one person to the next, from one generation to the next. As long as there was someone- children, lovers, enemies- to tell your story, to speak about you, it doesn't matter who lives or who dies, because their memories, their actions will keep on existing. They'll keep existing through the other people.  
  
The papers won't disappear if somebody copies and passes them on, the words and actions won't be forgotten if someone keeps on telling about them.  
  
But for now, as Alexander continued to write, he simply focused about filling up the time he was given completely and thoroughly,  until he was the one to die, so that there was something to be told about him. You need to make a story first, so that it could be told. No one can tell an nonexistent story after all.  
  
And so, Alexander Hamilton was going to create the story of Alexander Hamilton.


End file.
